Where you’ll sing for your supper

We don’t always go to restaurants to eat. We might go for the view, or to propose marriage, to suggest divorce, for a job interview, to fire or be fired, or to fiddle with bread rolls while we rest our feet and read a map. The Lincoln Steakhouse Americana in Santa Monica is a perfect example of a not-about-the-food restaurant. It’s for people who can’t sing.

I recognize this because I am one. It was first discovered by the Episcopal Church. As a child, my rendition of “Kyrie eleison” was so bad that I was pulled from the choir and made what may have been our congregation’s first female altar boy. Many years later, having accumulated half a lifetime’s unsung songs in my head, it’s hard to describe the euphoria at having wandered into a restaurant with an all-enveloping din of music, televisions and people shouting. The possibility dawned on me slowly: I could sing here. Nobody would hear, or care.

The inspiration crystallized after what should have been a Bombay martini with two olives came tasting of olive bottle juice. “I thought you said, ‘Dirty martini!’ ” the waiter yelled apologetically. As a test, I trilled, “No problem!” Not so much as a wince. “Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do!” Only a smile.

Even before a drinkable four fluid ounces of gin had arrived, I was singing. First, the national anthem (for the Dodgers). Then “La Marseillaise” (for Humphrey Bogart and John Kerry). Then “John Barleycorn Must Die” (for me).

I have waited since the 1970s to sing back to Stevie Winwood, Jim Capaldi and Chris Wood, those tousled boys from Traffic, but the acoustics in my shower were too cruel. Only thanks to Lincoln Steakhouse of Santa Monica, California, have I finally realized the dream -- full throat. As a result, I love Lincoln -- adore it, love, love, love it, will not hear a word against it, except about the food, which is not very good and indefensibly expensive, and the wine, which is just indefensibly expensive. There was no bread.

Which brings us to Lincoln’s real specialty. It’s a nightspot for the Atkins generation. If you’re between 21 and 39, on a steak and vodka diet, looking for a mate -- same sex or hetero, animal or mineral -- and like it better when you can’t hear what he, she or it has to say, this place was made for you.

It opened last April on Wilshire Boulevard at the inland edge of Santa Monica, which is only now giving up its crusty old bohemians for a new generation of wealthier, beach-loving young. John Baydale, one of the founders, describes the group that owns the restaurant by saying, “Basically we’re all guys in our 30s, and we’re all big meat eaters.” They wanted a steakhouse for their generation and evidently had the capital and experience to do it. Elsewhere around town, Lads Inc. (Baydale’s company’s real name is Star Group Management) has opened an Asian fusion restaurant called Tengu, a Cuban “bistro” called Paladar and a nightclub called Nacional, and he says a bunch of new places, including 9Thirty and Venice Cantina, are scheduled to open in the next two months.

Half-timbered decor

Back at Lincoln, the look is three-martini Tudor, with some exceptionally camp touches, such as hooded chairs in case Henry VIII, or Beelzebub, wants to guzzle claret in relative anonymity. The place has such an artful gloom that it comes as no surprise to learn the design is the work of Kelly Werstler, the woman behind the retro bar and wall of plates at Whist in the Viceroy hotel.

There is nothing retro about the service. Rather, a very modern sense of expedience governs the greeting. You enter through a narrow bar and are made to stay there until your companions arrive. Protest to the manager that you’d prefer to go straight to the table, and he’ll explain to you that they’re very sorry, but they’ll believe you have friends when your friends show up.

If it’s not noisy enough to sing when you arrive, be patient. As the place fills up at night, and diets shift from solids to liquids, people who have eaten at a long banquette in the bar are left sitting eye to midriff with deepening ranks of drinkers. By 9 p.m., it should easily be deafening.

The dining room is almost, but not quite, as loud. The wall between the bar and dining room is really an optical illusion, created by two suspended paintings.

If by some freak accident you end up in this restaurant to eat instead of drink, be advised that the menu is pretty much surf and turf, with some pre-Framingham desserts, such as bananas Foster.

The safest choice would be to stick to the simple items. The prawn cocktail is a safe starter, with horseradish-happy dipping sauce. The Caesar salad tasted more salad bar-issue than the authentic restaurant dish. Made right, preparation of this savory salad should be a restaurant happening, with the anchovy mashed into the garlic at table and whisked into raw egg yolk. Diners salivate as they watch and are then treated to an American delicacy. Making a dull one is a silly failing in a place that hasn’t been fazed by health police when it comes to steak, sugar and spirits.

To indulge in a few more complaints, crab fritters are ruined by the addition of avocado, which makes them taste strangely greasy. Whatever you do, stay clear of the lobster salad, which has so much truffle oil it overwhelms everything within three tables.

Failure to communicate

As a futile flourish, the waiters give what the management hopes are enticing spiels about the specials. You catch every third word through the din. “Heirloom,” “drizzled,” “grass-fed.” If the kitchen had a soupcon of common sense, they’d skip all this gastronomic drivel, especially the bit about “bone-in” fillet. By definition, fillets of beef should have no bone.

Grass-fed or not, the beef at Lincoln was disappointing. The porterhouse, which can only be ordered for two at a cost of $64, was only marginally less bland than the Delmonico. That said, compared to the sawdust-dry pork chops, bland is a recommendation.

The garlicky French fries, however, were terrific.

The wine list was a shocker: overpriced California reds poured too warm. Sixty-four bucks for a Mount Veeder Cab was borderline larceny. My advice: Stick with the hard liquor. The bar makes respectable cocktails, especially the Bourbon-laced health drinks also known as Manhattans.

Those who order dessert after the main course deserve what they get, which might be a big, stodgy brownie or an ice cream sandwich or, in my case, a double shot of Hirsch Reserve 16-year-old Bourbon. Ahhhh, whew. Strong. Could ruin a singing voice, this firewater. So, before it’s too late, ladies and gentlemen:

There were three men

came out of the West,

their fortunes, er, to find,

Na-na-na-na-na,

na-na-na-na,

John Barleycorn must die.

S. Irene Virbila is on vacation. She will return Nov. 3.

*

Lincoln Steakhouse Americana

Rating: Satisfactory

Location: 2460 Wilshire Blvd., Santa Monica; (310) 828-3304

Ambience: Noisy. Bring an opera singer to project your orders to the waiters. A flashlight wouldn’t be amiss. The decorator is a believer in artful gloom. This is a steakhouse for the “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” generation.

Service: Managers will not seat you until companions arrive; waiters friendly but not knowledgeable.

Price: Cocktails, $9 to $10; porterhouse for two, $64; Delmonico steak, $42; garlic fries, $7; bananas Foster, $8; Hirsch Reserve 16-year-old Bourbon, $15. For three courses with wine and cocktails, expect to pay $100 per head.

Best dishes: are liquid, including the Manhattan, Old-Fashioned and Lincoln Lemonade. Of solids, garlic fries and the shrimp cocktail.

Wine list: Heavy on jammy-tasting big California reds such as Mount Veeder Cabernet Sauvignon, with big prices to match. Stick with cocktails.

Details: Open for lunch weekdays, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.; for afternoon bar menu weekdays, 2 to 5 p.m.; for dinner daily, 5 to 11 p.m., with bar service until 1 a.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays and until 10 p.m. Sundays and Mondays.

Rating is based on food, service and ambience, with price taken into account in relation to quality. ****: Outstanding on every level. ***: Excellent. **: Very good. *: Good. No star: Poor to satisfactory.